


This is the Porcelain Clay of Humankind

by OwlBird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlBird/pseuds/OwlBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An self-indulgent AU exploration of the happy perfect shiny world where Daenerys helps defeat the White Walkers, takes the Iron Throne, is generally a fair and just ruler, and Jon gets to be her consort (except that Jon and Sansa are also lovers and all the sh&t that happened to both of them has made them into much darker people than they might have been in a better world).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Queen is Coming, Part 1

“Did you ever think it?” asks the mask. (well, it’s not a literal mask, but it so carefully conceals any hint of its owner’s inner workings as to be the same for him)

“No,” he answers, as the dust and snow rise up where his hand had grazed the stone. “Did you?”

The beautiful mouth of the mask curls upwards. “I stopped expecting anything long ago. Or being surprised, for that matter.” It draws a finger across the stone made clean by his palm. “So - what now?” The finger lifts upwards to scroll downwards against his cheek.

He moves his head towards the dainty line; it smells of mint and lemon and sex. “Now we wait for her.”

“The Mother of Dragons,” her voice says, its tone mocking.

“Indeed.” Her attitude would have bothered him, lifetimes ago, but he’s secretly pleased now. Surviving death makes one more lenient on certain matters, including one’s own failings.

“How much time do we have?”

“Time enough for what?”

The mask-eyes glimmer. His own glint back.

“Maybe we do. If you’re ready.”

The response is a laugh, high and cold and clear and sweet, and it sings down his spine. It’s all he needs, and he’s pressing her fingers down and lifting her figure up, up, and away, through blood and snow and ash, onto the cold, cold iron.

 


	2. The Queen is Coming, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This assumes that Sansa has learned to warg...

" _When I bestride him soar, I am a hawk._ " - William Shakespeare.

 

She might once have dreamt of a blue rose in a sheet of ice - but Jon ( _her_ Jon) was nothing like an icy wallflower. She thought of this morning’s...exertions and giggled, then quickly straightened in her chair and returned her Councilmember’s quizzical looks with a lofty stare. The Council’s topic however - which type of wood to best rebuild her naval fleet - did not aid her concentration, and she ran her fingers dreamily across her pale lips as her mind drifted once again to pleasanter subjects.

 

At first Jon had been gentle, almost subdued as he lowered his dark head between her legs and silver satin gown. Then he had looked up at her (at _her_ ; her heart sang), his grey eyes gleaming silver against the sun streaming out from the window above, and suddenly he grinned a wolfish grin.

 

In response she could feel herself aching, even before he reapplied his tongue to her cunt, warm and wet and lapping, his eyes open and fixated on her. Then that moment - that feels like it could last forever and which you know never can - and her fingers fisted his hair hard enough to bruise, her toes curled, her back arched, and: her eyes found themselves staring into the unreadable golden eyes of a hawk that had perched itself on her windowsill. As she came, Daenerys relished and shivered in the idea of being watched by a huntress, bird of prey, in her moment of victorious ecstasy.

 

But unlike his usual thorough ministrations, Jon’s tongue had stilled, and instead he had traveled up her body (rippled muscle, and Dany had thought briefly of her sun-and-stars, a lifetime ago), until his was atop hers. His gaze flickered down, and she remembers the grey almost overcome by the blown-wide black of his pupils.

 

He smiled again, hungrily. “You like what you see, don’t you? You always liked to watch, filthy girl.” He nipped at her shoulderbone and she could feel him hungry, cocky, grinning against her neck, but Daenerys could only nod. She hears the hawk keen (still there, perched on the window, evidence of her power) in what must be approval.

 

“It is all for you. It’s all for you to take, my love, my Queen,” and she feels him, hot and perfect and _real_ , at last slide into her cunt and fuck her like she knows a Queen ( _the_ Queen) deserves.

 

And even though she had just come hard enough to leave her bones weak, she felt that delicious salty ache pulsing, swelling, again.

 

“I love you,” he had crooned as he fucked her, and again her heart had bloomed at how he struggled to keep his eyes locked on hers. If his gaze wavered somewhat, if he called her his wolf instead of dragon, it was easily understood and forgiven; Dany knew so well how disorientating passion could be.

 

Jon urged them both on faster, moaning. “Why did I find you so late? Why could I not see?”

 

Dany had tried to comfort him, running her pale hand through his dark hair, but he didn’t stop. “You’re mine,” he chanted. “You’re mine, and I am yours.” It could have been the sun, but Dany swore his eyes glittered with tears. She felt her own prick her eyelids at his devotion.

 

“You’re _mine_ ,” and then he was gone, into his own fleeting, inviolable, and perfect world. As his breathing stilled, Dany heard a soft flutter of feathers.

*           *            *              *           *            *           *            *          *            *           *            *

After the seemingly endless Council discussion - finally concluded when she decided (decreed) all future vessels would be cypress wood - Dany could barely wait to exit the chamber before asking her new lady-in-waiting (recommended by Lady Sansa and most acceptable thus far) to bid Prince Jon join her for lunch (a private lunch, to be sure).

 

The woman curtsied until she was almost prone on the ground. Prince Jon had gone to visit the Lady Sansa, who was unwell, and had this morning been unable even to rise from her bed. He would be likely occupied until the early evening.

 

Dany felt a tug of jealousy, which she swiftly brushed off as ungenerous. She should be grateful that her lover was so considerate a brother, and to a half-sister no less. Yes; to show Jon ( _her_ Jon) that she too could be generous, she would have a batch of lemon cakes sent to the ailing Lady Sansa, and Dany could only hope that she would one day find a man as sweet as her own.


	3. What Do We Do For Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon never understood that jealousy could be a thing that grows inside a person, like some misshapen beast clawing to get out. Until Oldtown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story is in the same canon as the first two chapters (the happy perfect shiny world where Daenerys helps defeat the White Walkers, takes the Iron Throne, is generally a fair and just ruler, and Jon gets to be her consort...except that Jon and Sansa are also lovers and all the sh&t that happened to both of them has made them into much darker people than they might have been in a better world). 
> 
> This is chapter is Part 1 of 2. BUT: Chapter 2 will have three alternate endings (so many ways for Sansa to be clever and dark!). I'd love for folks to post ideas/suggestions in the Comments on what you'd like to see as one of the 3 different endings.

Jon never understood that jealousy could be a thing that grows inside a person, like some misshapen beast clawing to get out. Until Oldtown.

When Daenerys announced the trip, he had felt nothing ugly begin to grow or stir. He’d been pleased even, as the passage would afford new locations to explore with Sansa.

Much had changed since Sam had journeyed there at Jon’s behest, ages ago. Gone were the ubiquitous robes and chains and other physical reminders of a conspiracy by the Maesters to eradicate magic. Once Daenerys had uncovered the plot - and Varys’ role in it - she had been both devastated and infuriated. Jon admitted he was impressed by her anger and the sight of her on Drogon, lightning and black fire, riding to cleanse the city and its Master-Maesters; perhaps he was even genuinely aroused by it.

Her other advisers had encouraged a degree of restraint (for future revenue, if nothing else), inaction to which Daenerys reluctantly agreed. Some of Oldtown was left standing, but the ancient keeps and halls of learning had been razed to the ground. They were replaced with a wide grassy plain, upon which no structure could ever be placed: a nod to what the whole world would look like without magic to fill it.

Instead, at the edges of the City lay the reformed purpose of their visit: the construction - funded by various contingents eager for the Queen’s approval - of a new campus for healers and the learned. Willas Tyrell had offered to host the negotiations at his estate on the outskirts of Oldtown; a vast spread of green riches and rolling hills.

Willas. How sour that name now tasted. When their road-weary party arrived on the grounds, servants had met them with copper bowls of rosewater, iced fruits, and Arbor Gold, and Jon had been grateful. Willas, handsome despite the years and the loss and the wooden cane he leaned on, greeted all with courteous words and friendly smiles. For each contingent, he had a servant distribute welcome gifts: a wreath of gold-dipped fire-colored flowers for Daenerys, and two beautifully carved saddled outfitted for Drogon and Viserys; hardy apple seeds for the Braavosi (‘they grow in even the wettest of conditions’); a rare set of manuscripts for the Dornish (‘only for the discerning adult eye,’ Willas said with a wink). Thinking the greeting over, their party turned to head to their quarters, but Willas stopped them, motioning to his servant holding a small basket.

“I apologize for the breach in protocol, your Grace, but you might have heard of my fondness for breeds of the canine variety. This little lady is the runt of the litter. The kennel masters were sure she wouldn’t make it past the first week, but she’s far stronger than she looks.

“Again, forgive me, but I could not help but be reminded that my late sister Margery had spoken often of Sansa’s love for dogs, and her own, early loss.” He turned to Sansa.

“I know nothing can replace your Lady, but this little one did seem like she was made for you.” Sansa peered in on the sleepily nestled form of the cream-colored pup and her eyes lit in delight.

Sansa scooped up the tiny bundle, oblivious to all else, and Willis grinned at her reaction. He even had the audacity to lean in and kiss her cheek before continuing with introductions. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Daenerys eyeing the Sansa and Willas speculatively, and he knew what she was thinking.

It was then that Jon first understood how it was that jealousy could indeed take physical, monstrous, form.

Why Willas? Jon had certainly seen cruder attempts to win Sansa’s affection, or at least her bed. And he had personally seen at least one Summer Islander slipping out her chambers in the predawn. [“Why him?” he’d asked then too. “I wanted to see how we looked together,” she had tartly responded, and then they’d laughed as they ate morning persimmons and watched the tide roll out.]

Nor was Jon one of those hypocritical brutes that insisted she keep herself only for him. If he was to be Daenerys’ dragon-consort, he would certainly not stop Sansa flexing her own wings.

So why Willis? Perhaps it was the knowledge that he might have married Sansa, if not for a slip of fate. Or that he seemed to genuinely care for her, and Sansa’s smile when she saw the pup. Or perhaps it was the terrible bolt of fear that shot into Jon’s stomach when he saw Sansa’s smile, because it was a genuine, gentle thing. It was a smile from a Sansa that he thought almost gone, buried in the weight of years and their lies, and he could not remember ever having been able to lift it onto her rose-pale lips.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Jon struggled to contain his black mood, which grew darker as the negotiations continued. Whenever he found Sansa, she was invariably with or interrupted by a seemingly endless string of courtiers and ladies. (One particularly egregious interloper was a Braavosi ambassador who begged Sansa to advise him which silk scabbard looked more authentically ‘water dancer’. Giving in good naturedly, she caught his eye and, seeing his expression, gave him an apologetic shrug (and quick-as-it-came, a much more lascivious little smirk that made his heart beat faster)).

He knew Daenerys viewed Sansa as a sufficiently sweet and overall silly lady more interested in flirting than statecraft. But Jon knows firsthand how many secrets and strategies Sansa has been able to build and break because people mistook her charm for foolishness. (And he knows it’s for the best they think of her as they do, but sometimes he wished he could tell everyone, he could boast and unfold one of her schemes as a fancy party trick).

Then, on the seventh day, at the feast to commemorate a successfully negotiated future for Oldtown’s best and brightest, it almost all goes wrong.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
Rather than an airless dining hall, guests were ushered onto the field where the Citadel once stood, and where now and enormous wicker canopy - bound with a thousand red and gold roses, and large enough to fit a queenly feast - now beckoned. As they watched the sun go down beneath the greengold fields, servants ensured no glass was empty, and when stars begin to emerge overhead, they lit candles at each table and on the many paths. 

It all did seem somewhat magical, which Jon suppose was Willas’ goal, and he hates him just a little bit more for it. And then he sees Sansa, and for a moment, he forgets to be furious.

Most people, if asked who was more beautiful, would say Daenerys. She was small, but she didn’t seem so when you saw her, especially if she saw you, silver hair and violet eyes. She burned white-hot and your instinct was to give way before her.

In comparison, Sansa seemed quieter; less vibrant, despite her height and copper hair. And Sansa, despite the fact that Jon was desperately in love with her, was not more-than-human like Daenerys. She would never be a dragonrider or firewalker or burn men and kingdoms if they defied her. But she had what Daenerys never could - the ability to wear many faces. Daenerys had only to wear the one - bold, bright, silver-purple and magic. Sansa had had to learn to wear a thousand, and the power to change them as quick as quicksilver. And indeed she had: she could charm small children with warm smiles and old men with warm flesh, freeze the foolish in their tracks or punish them with a pretty little smile. And if Sansa looked at you with desire - it was like she ate your words, drew you in and all you wanted to do was give her your breath if you could be hers.

And it seemed that tonight Sansa wanted to take everyone’s breath away.

Under the candlelight, she glowed. A willow-wreath was braided into her hair and crowned with pale roses. True to her Stark roots, her dress was silver-grey, but thin as gossamer, and the hemline was embroidered with a dozen direwolves, so as she walked it seemed as though they ran with her; loyal guardians at her feet.

Jon saw Willas bend to kiss Sansa’s hand. She smiled in return - a beautiful thing - and he watched from the corner of his eye as Willas’ smile and gaze deepened into something more serious. Sansa placed a hand on his and whispered into his ear. Jon, at Daenerys’ side while she chatted with a minor nobleman from Braavos, could not hear what she said, but he could see Willas expression in response. Fortunately, they parted before Jon could run over and punch the man in the face. Unfortunately, Daenerys turned at just that moment and saw the look on Jon’s face. It was then that she - Mother of Dragons, Slayer of Lies - began to understand his feelings towards Sansa were not that of a brother.

To her credit, Daenerys kept her rage close-furled, and instead watched Jon the rest of the evening. And, despite his admirable restraint - Daenerys was not deceived. She saw even into his senses - sensed the sixth sense of his body reaching for Sansa’s. The ends of her hair began to burn. And Jon - to his credit - sensed her watching him; sensed her growing fury at his betrayal and his correspondingly diminished life expectancy. He also found he didn’t mind as much the thought of death as much as he thought he should; he was a man long dead already.

But to neither of their credits, they did not sufficiently credit the Lady Sansa Stark. Smiling, soft, accommodating - they did not see that she saw them, that she knew in her marrow the storm that would come if she did not stop it. Though her pleasant expression did not change, she felt the bloom of a deep melancholy unfold. She loved Jon - loved him in a way that only two people who stood together on the brink can know and love each other. Sansa loved him in a way that she could no longer love anyone else - fierce and forgiving and forever - and she would light the world on fire before she lets Daenerys hurt him or take him from her.

So she keeps smiling, soft and accommodating, and puts her plans to motion.


	4. We'll Lie for Love (Version 1 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of 3 alternate endings of the last chapter; it picks up right where the last chapter left off.
> 
> If there is a version you particularly want to see, please leave a note in the comments!

As the night deepened, servants unobtrusively replaced the now-ravaged platters of meats with lighter fare, from lavender-scented ice to fruits carved into fantastic shapes. None of it served to cool Daenerys’ ire, and only the danger it would pose to the funding for the new academy kept her from commanding Drogon to set fire to the whole place anew. 

“Your Grace?”

“Hmm - yes?” She turned impatiently to the man next to her; a member of the Braavosi delegation who was garbed as some ridiculous version of a water dancer. 

“I was just saying how melancholy Prince Jon looks tonight. It’s no wonder; given how that silly sister of his decided to dress up.”

Daenerys was tempted to reply that he was in no position to judge the sartorial missteps of others, but then she registered what he was saying. 

“What do you mean?”

The man offered an obsequious bow. “Your Grace, apologies. I did not mean to offend. I merely meant to say that I was surprised at Lady Sansa’s choice to make herself look more like Jon’s Wildling lover.” At the mention of another lover, Daenerys shoots him a fiery look, and the man wilts. “I, I mean only that - years ago, of course, before Her Grace liberated Westeros, when Prince Jon was with the Night’s Watch...surely, Your Grace knows of the Wildling whom Prince Jon, er, befriended when he was captured north of the Wall…”

“Captured?” Daenerys raises an eyebrow. The man, wilting further, now resembles more water than dancer. 

“No, of course not. Fighting for freedom…”

Daenerys takes pity. “Now, now, it’s alright; I’m not about to roast you. Tell me more about what you were saying before. Why would Lady Sansa dress herself as this Wildling?”

“Er, well, em, the talk is that the Northern Houses are concerned about Prince Jon’s growing allegiance to the South, and Lady Sansa wanted to help remind him of his responsibilities in the North. His, erm, past affections for the North.”

“Hm. Well.” Despite herself, Daenerys feels some of her anger burn away, but at the thought of Northern houses whispering against her, it flares up again. 

“Are you saying that the North is conspiring against me? Are they planning some kind of treason? If so, you are under a duty to your Queen to tell me anything you know!”

“No, Your Grace, nothing of the sort, no, I swear. Merely that they see how enamored Prince Jon is of you, how he spends all his time with you, and they are afraid that they will be forgotten, especially since there is so much need of assistance in rebuilding, after the horrors of the Long Night and --”

As the man rambles, her eye catches Jon’s as he’s patiently showing a young squire how to hold a sword; he smiles one of his rare beautiful smiles. At the thought of how much love he has from his stern Northern people, her anger melts into tenderness. “Alright, all right,” she says. “There’s no harm done. But you’re awfully well-informed for a merchant, aren’t you?”

If it’s possible, the man bows a little bit lower and trembles a little bit more. “I travel a great deal, Your Grace, and folk are always eager to talk to travelers, especially after a few drinks - not that I would drink, Your Grace, and --”

Thoroughly mollified, she smiles kindly at the man. What was his name again? Sycho? Tycho?

“That will be all, good Ser. I will not forget your kindness.”

With that, the man practically falls over in gratitude, and performs a half-walk, half-waddle back into the shadows. 

* * * * *

Dawn is just spreading its first shoots over the treetops as the Braavosi delegation begins readying for departure. Servants are carting various containers to the docks, where the Titan’s sails are unfurling. 

In the dimness of the cypress grove near the stables, the Braavosi stands fixing the saddle of his steed; he has business yet in Dorne to attend to, and plans to rejoin the fleet in Starfall. 

“Thank you, Lord Tycho.”

Still shaken and a little embarrassed from last night, he feels impatient and honestly, a little ill-used. The Lady Sansa has been nothing but kind to him, and yes, his merchant’s heart beats faster every time he smells her perfume, but surely she had asked a little too much from him? To go to the Queen and lie straight to her face with that ridiculous story about the Wildling? 

“Lord? I’m no lord. And after what you asked me to do last night, I’m not sure if you’re the lady I thought you were.”

“Perhaps I am not.” A pale graceful hand slips over the horse’s bridle. “But you are a Braavosi, and you know how swift the tide can bring fortune and favor. And I’ll wager a hundred gold Dragons that you’ll be a Lord before the moon second’s tide.”

The sun rises higher against the cloudless blue of another day, and he can see the the heartbeat drumming at her throat. Her lips part, and she licks her lips, as if suddenly uncertain, and places a slim white hand on his thigh.

“But you - you must not tell anyone what we discussed. You will promise?”

His horse, impatient to be going, paws the ground, and the movement brings her a step further into the light. Tycho’s breath catches. Her hair isn’t really red at all. No. It’s like the rarest of rubies, or copper and sunlight, and her eyes, as they gaze into his, are like the water on the Summer Sea. Her hand suddenly feels very warm on his thigh.

He straightens his back. “Of course, my Lady.”

At his statement, she draws a deep relieved breath and a beatific smile. The action causes her breasts to strain most captivatingly against her bodice, and now it’s not only her hand which feels too warm. 

“Thank you, Tycho. I knew you were a man to be trusted. Or,” here Sansa gives a mischievous little smile and Tycho swears his heart stops for a moment, “should I say Lord Lesstoris?” I knew you were a man to be trusted. And please be careful - the Rose-Road can still be treacherous, even at this time of year.”

Thoroughly mollified (and noting to himself that the name Lord Tycho Lesstoris has a very nice ring to it), he bends to kiss her hand. 

“I am always at your service, milady.” With that, he kicks the horse in what he hopes is a gallant charge out onto the Rose Road, trying not to cough on the dust. 

* * * * *

Sansa is late arriving at the break-fast the next morning, and holds her head held low as she takes her seat. Daenerys looks out the corner of her eye to see Jon’s reaction; he gives a glance at the person entering but nothing more; one hand holds his goblet of watered beer, the other is steady on her thigh; like an anchor. Although she needs nothing to make her feel strong, it still feels good. 

“Did you sleep poorly, Lady Sansa?”

“No, Your Grace - I slept very well.” The girl’s rather ashen pallor, however, speaks for itself. 

“Then perhaps you slept too well, as your slumber has made you well late for the break-fast?”

The comment, archly delivered, elicits smirks from certain corners of the table. Lady Sansa bows her head further as she blushes from shame, while Jon’s hand on her thigh inches closer to her cunt; it all serves to make Daenerys feel powerful, that is to say, aroused. 

“I apologize for my lateness, Your Grace. I was delayed as I had asked the Lord Tyrell if he could provide guidance on Lady. He advised that I stay a while longer here, so that she can be raised with her siblings until she is trained enough to leave.”

“Lady?”

“The pup, Your Grace.” 

“Ah, the little bitch that Willas gave you?”

Sansa has no response, and Jon’s hand tightens delightfully on her thigh, and she struggles to suppress her smirk. Why thought she ever that the little Lady Sansa was some kind of rival for his affections?

Daenerys takes a sip of her rose-mead. “I meant no offense, Lady Sansa. It is good that you care for the vulnerable. Please, stay as long as you need.” Indeed, Daenerys could hardly have arrived at a better solution than for Sansa to spend more time with Lord Willas.

Sansa offers a barely audible thanks, and thankfully someone else picks up the conversation, which lasts until Jon’s hand reaches a place unsuitable for the public eye, at which point Daenerys hastily excuses herself and Jon, citing matters of state. 

* * * * *

As the sun begins its westward fall, the final buckles and locks and ropes are buckled and locked and roped and the wains start the journey back to Queens Landing while Jon readies the dragons. 

Daenerys spots Sansa near the Lord Willas, and makes a note to do whatever she can to encourage their more permanent union. She would never show it, but inwardly she breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not that she dislikes Sansa, she just...likes it better when she’s not around. Even more so when Sansa is away and Jon is nearby. So it is with a studiously repressed eagerness that she sees Sansa off.

“You have everything you need, my dear?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” murmurs Sansa with downcast eyes and a slight curtsy. “Your Grace is too kind, especially after that --” and here her voice trembles slightly -- “I mean my mistake in wearing that dress.” Here she looks up at the Queen. “And I promise it will never happen again. I only thought that -- that is, I was worried that Jon would --.

Taking pity, Daenerys stops her with a gentle arm. “I understand Sansa. I know what it is to fear losing family, to fear losing a brother.” She suddenly has a flash of the house with the red door, where she was happy, before Viserys drove himself mad with what he could never have, and it seems to Daenerys that as Sansa looks at her with her quiet blue eyes that she understands, yes, that she truly understands, and there is in that moment a sense of genuine understanding and perhaps even kinship between the two, but then Drogon roars, and the moment is broken. 

Soon, all of Oldtown is only a speck on the ground, and Daenerys is glad to be flying; she forgot how much she missed it. 

* * * * *  
The journey by horse was wearisome, and the world is dark when Tycho arrives at the crossroads where he intends to sleep, but finds another group of travellers already camped there. He doesn’t know them, but the colors of their tent mark them friendly as men of Blackmont. More importantly, the campfire is bright and warm, and Tycho accepts the offer to join them for the evening gladly. After the usual talk of trade, a bottle of Dornish fire-wine is produced and more interesting stories exchanged. 

As the night wears on, the stories grow markedly bawdier. At one particularly explicit remark of some Dornishman about the juice of a particular lady’s peach, Tycho interrupts. 

“You know nothing,” the wine making him slur his words slightly. Unlike you bottom feeders -- I have more refined tastes.” Tycho’s eyes glaze as he remembers the way Lady Sansa’s breasts looked in the early morning sunshine. “What I’ve seen - like a, no, like, yes, ah, like perfectly ripe...honeymelons!”

The camp erupts in raucous laughter. 

Flustered, Tycho angrily retorts, “And what would you know? Just two days ago, I saw such perfection, when Lady Sansa practically offered herself to me!”

“Oh? Do tell us more about these delicious fruits, good ser!”

Tycho opens his mouth to respond when something scurries over his foot. He recoils instinctively, but the man next to him (the one who had invited him to join the fire) reaches out - quick as a cat - and kills the rat with a quick flick of his knife. 

The group laughs. “A rat, is all,” says one. “Or maybe it’s the spirit of Lady Sansa, come to give you a preview of her snatch, eh?”

The rest of the men laugh, but Tycho feels suddenly uncomfortable. He stares at the dead rat, its feet curled up in death. He flings it away into the brush.

“Well, go on then,” says another. “I believe you were giving us details about the Red Wolf’s melons? Were they ripe and juicy? And what did you have to do for her to get a taste?”

He clears his throat. “Ahh…Em….”

“Eel got your tongue?” hectors one man, who had been eager to hear more.

“Oh, just shut up and leave him alone, Cerwyn,” says the rat-killer. “He’s had too much of your damned firewine. You’d fuck your own mother after a bottle, and besides, who hasn’t wanted to imagine the Lady Stark stark-naked, eh?” 

Tycho looks at the man, who is looking back at him with an odd kind of intensity. And it seems to Tycho - although he’s not sure if it’s that fifth swig of firewine talking - that the man doesn’t seem like that much of a man. The eyes are grey and fierce, but the nose is too small, the neck too delicate. 

There’s a grudging murmur of assent from the group, which slowly begins to disperse as the fire dims. Tycho unrolls his sleeping mat, cursing the headache he knows is coming. 

After troubling dreams - in one, a beautiful hawk sat on a dead tree and watched him with sad golden eyes before spreading its talons and screeching ‘Melons’!’ in a human voice; in another, a flood of rats ran over his body while the silver-eyed man sadly shakes his head - Tycho awakes in the grey dawn a start, breathing heavily. Unnerved, he gets up to piss behind a bush. He returns and bends down to pack up his bedroll and leave his bad dreams behind when his fingers recoil as if burnt. On his mattress, in full view, is the dead rat from the night before. Tycho gazes wildly around him, but sees no one. The men are still all passed out by the campfire, snoring loudly. 

Cursing in fear, Tycho kicks it off and packs everything up as fast as he can and gets on his horse. He gives one quick glance back at the camp, and when he turns around, the slim silver-eyed man is standing before him. “Safe travels, Lord Tycho,” he says, smiling, the needle-like dagger glinting at his waist. 

Tycho just stares at him. 

“Lady Stark will be very glad to know you’re a man who knows how to keep secrets. Such men are always rewarded.”

Tycho manages a small nod. 

The man grins and pats his horse on the rump. “You should consider stopping at the next village - I hear they have the tastiest melons in all Westeros!” 

Tycho doesn’t look back again, and rides as fast as his poor skills allow him and until his horse’s hooves drown out the man’s howls of laughter.

* * * * *

A few days later, two sets of toes dangle lazily over the edge of a cliff as two sets of hands pass a flagon of firewine back and forth. The outline of the Three Towers begins to harden as the pre-dawn turns the sky pale. 

“And?” says the first.

“I think I actually saw him piss his pants,” says the other. 

The first one giggles, bright and girlish, and wiggles her perfect toes. “I’ll be sure to tell Jon,” she says, before reaching out to the second with an earnestness that almost brings tears to both sets of eyes. “I love you, sister.”

The second reaches back, as a falcon keens above them in the endless circle of pre-dawn sky, and says, “I love you too, sister.”

And after a short pause: “but if you ever ask me to again to waste my time threatening a two-bit nobody from Braavos again you’re going to have to do a lot better than promise me my pick from Willas’ stable.”

Though they try to stifle it, their clear sweet laughter is heard by the nearby birds, who flutter up from the bushes, angry at the untimely interruption.

**Author's Note:**

> Quote by John Dryden.


End file.
